


Loved and Lost.

by captnalbatr0ss



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-13 20:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7984516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captnalbatr0ss/pseuds/captnalbatr0ss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nate offers to speak at Rafe’s funeral, because it’s the right thing to do, and because Sam can’t.<br/>Sam's written down some things to say, but Nate has a story of his own to share as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loved and Lost.

* * *

Nate offers to speak at Rafe’s funeral because it’s the right thing to do, and because Sam  _can’t_. Sam hasn’t been able to string more than a few words together at a time since it happened.

The church is crowded. There are many faces Nate doesn’t recognize. It’s an open casket, and when Sam walks in and sees Rafe there— _Rafe, but not Rafe_ , he whimpers—it is too much for Sam to bear.

He hovers there, all but rooted to the spot from the moment he and Nate arrive and on. Even as people begin to file in, file by to pay their respects, Sam is unable to pull himself away. 

He stays near the head of the casket, hunched over, a hand on Rafe’s chest until it disturbs him to feel it unmoving. Fingers in his hair, but it makes him angry how much product they used— _Rafe wouldn’t have liked it,_  Sam insists. A thumb stroking across Rafe’s brow, but his skin feels cool, and so Sam lingers with shaky hands, desperate to touch Rafe but unable to settle, and growing more and more agitated with the people walking by, because—

_Can’t they see that I'm—that I’m trying to—God, what am I trying to do? Rafe. How do I get through this?_

Turmoil again. It’s inside and outside, and it’s  _everything_ —Sam stares at Rafe,  _wills_  him to take a breath, but he’s so still.

_So still._

Sam observes; the press of his suit, perfectly tailored, it’s Rafe’s favorite. Rafe’s hands, left on top of right, too  _stiff_  to not look unnatural, and there’s the wedding band on his finger—Sam could barely bring himself to let it go. It sat on the nightstand on Rafe’s side of the bed for days before Sam realized how much more it hurt to see it there, to know it belonged on Rafe’s finger, but that instead it sat, doomed to collect dust.

He touches it once, an affirmation that it’s back where it should be, with Rafe. One more thing to bind them together.

Sam wants so badly to see Rafe’s eyes one last time, and it breaks his heart to know that he can’t. Those blue-brown eyes that see right through him, pierce him to his core. He remembers the moment the light left them, the  _life_  left them, and he counts it as the worst moment of his life,  _past-present-future._

_The moment I became half of a whole._

He thinks, for a moment, that it might be best to just lay himself to rest with Rafe.

He knows each angle, each hard line and each curve, and he knows that when they come together, their bodies flush, there's not a breath of air that could come between them. 

_I could make myself fit. They could bury us both._

He thinks if ever a person had the power to bring someone back by sheer force of will, by wishing hard enough, it could be him. The intensity of his longing—the way that thinking of life alone makes his heart pound, the  _fear_. It could be enough, should be enough.

_Why isn’t it enough?_

It takes a soft word, and gentle encouragement from Nate to tear Sam from his place beside Rafe, convince him to take a seat.

Sam hasn’t been right all morning—lost and confused at breakfast, setting the table for two, pouring two cups of coffee. Pulling two suits out of the closet and asking Rafe for his opinion; which one, and which shoes, and  _have you seen my new tie?_

But then he’d realized his error, and it had taken him almost half an hour to stop crying.

And now, he sits, and Nate can see that he’s struggling still—his breathing is slow, deep, but unsteady. Barely controlled. He twists the ring on his finger absently, anxiously, and Nate can read his body language well enough to know he really wants to stand, to pace, to smoke. 

_To run._

Nate puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder, and he jumps—surprised. As if he’s forgotten there’s anyone in the building with him.

“Sam—” Nate wants to say something comforting, but he’s at a loss. 

And then it’s time—Nate gives Sam’s shoulder a squeeze as he stands. The doors leading into the sanctuary are closed, the last seats filled, and two of the pallbearers carefully shift the flowers, close the casket for the remainder of the service.

Nate slows as he passes the casket, and out of respect he pauses before stepping up onto the platform, and toward the pulpit.

It’s uncomfortable to stand there, he’s fidgeting already, he can feel it—he half expects Rafe to crawl out of the casket and dress him down on his poor form—but he’s determined to see his way through this, for Sam.

Nate tries to distract himself by taking in the details of the sanctuary, but his eyes keep returning to Sam, sitting front and center—Sam, who keeps shifting between staring at Rafe’s casket and dropping his head into his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. 

Nate starts off by addressing everyone, letting his eyes roam across the people gathered, but when it gets personal he only watches Sam, because it seems too private for eye contact with anyone else—Sam’s relationship with Rafe was always much more than meets the eye, like an iceberg, most of it unseen, beneath the surface, and deep almost beyond comprehension.

“I can’t talk about Rafe Adler without talking about my brother, Sam,” he says. “Because that’s how I knew Rafe. And anyone that knew Rafe well knew how much Sam meant to him, how much they loved each other.”

Nate rattles off the facts, formalities; Rafe's birthdate, death date, where he grew up, and who he was— _A successful business man. A treasure seeker. A hell of a fencer, even if he was a show-off._

And who he leaves behind— _his husband, Samuel Drake. A brother-in-law, Nathan Drake, his wife, Elena, and their daughter, Cassandra._

“What I’m going to say, it would be coming from Sam, but he’s asked that I speak on his behalf.”

At that, Nate sees Sam offer a tiny, shaky smile, and somewhere behind the tears Nate understands it to mean  _thank you for that, by the way._

He knows what to say because Sam wrote a few things down. And so he says those things, and when Sam drops his head into his hands, starts to cry again—silent, only the shaking of his shoulders to give him away—Nate tries not to let it get to him.

And he didn’t plan it, not really, but he listens to himself saying these things for Rafe, from  _Sam_ , and it seems only right to pay his respects with a few words that are his own. 

And so he shares a moment—Sam telling him that he loved to hear Rafe laugh, and Nate’s skepticism that such a thing was possible.

“I knew Rafe to be so serious, and I told Sam I’d believe it when I saw it, and even Sam admitted that was unlikely.” 

A few people chuckle—it’s no secret that Rafe wasn’t an open book with everyone, and Nate sees the conflict on Sam’s face; the beginning of a smile mingled with a fresh wave of sadness.

Nate tries to keep his tone light, hoping to bring at least a hint of something happy back to Sam’s eyes.

“And I never told Sam this, but I  _did_  finally see it. Hear it.”   

> _They stood side by side, Rafe leaning against Sam. Sam had one arm slung around Rafe’s shoulders, and Nate could hear that they were talking but not what they were saying. Something in the moment made Nate pause on the porch, wait before calling out._

Sam looks up, meets Nate’s eye, surprised. 

“It was Christmas Eve. I was coming to find you two, because it was time to eat. You were both outside, and I don’t know what you said to him, but whatever it was—” he shakes his head, shrugs. “Well, whatever it was, it must’ve been funny, as hard as it made him laugh.” 

> _Sam leaned down, dropping his arm to Rafe’s waist, and he brushed his lips over Rafe’s ear, whispered something. Nate watched as Rafe’s head tipped forward, and then back, and his shoulders began to shake, and then Nate heard it, and it was just like Sam said—a laugh that was loud, and easy, and sincere._
> 
> _Sam shifted them, pulled Rafe against his chest, playfully draping his arms over Rafe’s shoulders, muffling Rafe’s face against his chest, and Nate quickly ducked back inside before he could be seen, not wanting to ruin the moment—but not before he saw the way Sam’s face lit up when Rafe laughed._

Nate remembers the moment well, not just Rafe’s laugh but the love, the joy in Sam’s eyes. It meant a lot to Nate, to understand that his big brother was  _happy_. 

“The way you looked at him—It was then,” he continues, “that I knew that Rafe was meant for you, Sam. And that you were meant for him.”

Nate’s still watching Sam, and a look comes across Sam’s face that he’s never seen before, and it’s a lot like anguish but there’s something else there, too.

He thinks he made a mistake, that he shouldn’t have said what he did, because suddenly Sam stands, on wobbly legs, and he leaves in a hurry—nearly running—disappearing through a side door. 

Nate leaves the pulpit without hesitation, following his brother.

He finds Sam just outside, struggling to light a cigarette despite the  _No Smoking_ sign near the door. Sam gives up, his hands are too unsteady, so he fidgets with his tie instead.

“Never could get it quite right,” he offers. “Rafe—he always fixed it for me.”

And it’s the most Sam’s said all at once since Rafe died.

“Sam. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve—”

“What?” Sam looks genuinely confused, and he shakes his head, wipes his eyes with trembling hands. “No, ah— Nathan, I—” He takes a deep breath, through his nose, and he smiles. Tears and all, and puffy eyes, and he smiles. “I had to get out of there ‘cause I almost laughed and I didn’t wanna explain why.”

Nate looks surprised,  _is_  surprised. But he’s glad to hear Sam talking, so he just waits for Sam to explain.

“I’d forgotten about that. I, ah…” He shakes his head, chuckles even as a few new tears track down his cheeks. “That was a good Christmas. I had no idea you saw us.”

“I didn’t want to say something and spoil it.” Nate smiles a little bit, too. “Do you… do you remember what you said?”

Sam drops his gaze to the ground, but his mind, his heart is somewhere distant, somewhere long ago. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Well?” Nate nudges him, but carefully. Gently.

“It was a stupid Christmas song. Ah, a pirate Christmas song.”

“A pirate Christmas song? They have those?”

“‘course they do. I got a whole CD of ‘em.” Sam laughs. “It was, ah…ah shit,” he rolls his unlit cigarette between his fingers, thinking hard. “Ah.  _Rudolph the Red-Butt Cabin Boy_.”

“What the hell—Sam that’s terrible.”

“Yeah, no, I know, it’s bad. But, ah, there was this one verse that—” Sam stifles another chuckle. “It went something like, ‘Rudolph with your butt so bright, won’t you shine my mast tonight.’”

Nathan snorts. “Jesus, Sam—”

Sam can’t help but grin. “I know.” He closes his eyes, and suddenly the moment is so clear, he can almost feel the warmth of Rafe’s body against his, the shake of his shoulders, the sound of his laughter. 

_Almost._

But the space where Rafe had been is empty, and Sam’s smile falters, his lip trembles. “Nathan—”

“Hey. Hey, come here.” Nate wraps his arms around Sam, and Sam’s forehead drops to his shoulder.

It surprises Sam, the clarity of the memory. How real it seems. And it  _hurts_ , it hurts deeply and completely, the weight of the memory compressing his heart, choking out the spark of happiness that once accompanied it.

He tries to chase it down, get it back—that happy thought—but he’s met again and again by the ache of loss, like standing on the ledge and peering down into the depths as it swallows up everything he ever loved, and now it’s lost.

It feels, in some ways, like Rafe is just out of reach—just  _beyond_. Close, and on the other side of the veil. Sam needs only to step through.

It’s tempting.

It haunts him.

“I really fuckin’  _miss him_.” His voice is barely a whisper, but he pulls away, takes a tentative breath. Tries to compose himself. “We…we should get back.”

“If you’re sure you’re ready.”

“No such thing as ready for this, little brother.” He considers the cigarette for a moment, decides to throw it in the trash. “Thank you.”

“Thank me? For what?”

“For giving me that moment back.”

They walk back in together, and Nate starts to return to the pulpit but Sam stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“No. I, ah… I got it from here, Nathan. It’s—nobody knew him like I did. You did great, with my notes. But,” he straightens his jacket, his gaze drifts to the casket, his eyes always find their way back to Rafe one way or another. “There’s so much can’t be said by anybody but me. I shouldn’t’ve left it to you. He was—he—…it should come from me. The rest of it.”

So Nate returns to his seat, watches as Sam walks toward the front, and he gets slower the closer he gets.

Sam pauses at the head of Rafe’s casket—he presses a hand to it, careful not to disturb the flower arrangement, and Nate watches as he leans down, his lips nearly brushing the surface, and he sees that Sam whispers  _something_ , and he can tell from the smile that tugs at the corner of Sam’s lips that it’s the verse again, from the song, from that night.

He lingers a moment longer, his thumb sliding slowly back and forth just as it so often did against Rafe’s skin— _only way I’m gonna get through this is with you, baby_ —and then he takes the stairs carefully, steps behind the pulpit.

He takes a breath, his eyes skim the crowd, but only once. Then his eyes are for Rafe again, the glossy surface of the casket, the spread of flowers.

He clears his throat, prays he can get through it— _it’s for Rafe, it’s for Rafe, it’s to Rafe_ —and he opens his mouth.

And he speaks.


End file.
